On Broken Wings
by Honour Society
Summary: Everyone falls, it's this former-alpha's turn. And when an alpha falls, she falls hard. Massie-centric. Heavy themes. Surprise pairing.


**Disclaimer: **Don't own Lisi Harrison's _Clique _or the song lyrics. I made a point of not mentioning any brands in this one, so I don't have to worry about that.

**Author's Note: **I've been listening to way too many sad songs today. This is a result of that. I would say "enjoy!" like I usually do, but, frankly, I'm not sure that applies. _You're made of awesome if you know who sings this song._

**On Broken Wings**

-A _Clique _fan fiction by: Honour Society-

__

Precious and fragile things  
Need special handling  
My God, what have we done to you?

Ice cold water rained upon her pale figure. Amber eyes flickered open and closed. Shivers ran up her back. No matter what she did, she couldn't come clean. She'd rubbed her skin raw and red with expensive goop she'd found in the bathroom closet.

If she listened hard enough she could make out the hushed tones of the great Kendra and William Block arguing. Most likely, about her state of mind.

Her hand grasped the cool metal of the faucet. She squeezed it. Turned hard. From one extreme to the next. Her skin prickled. Covered in goosebumps, she welcomed the rush of hot water, lolling her head back so the stream travelled up her forehead and down her back.

She was idly aware that her hair — usually a deep chestnut — looked like onyx. _Like liquid midnight, _she'd been told once.

After seven more minutes of unclouded bliss, where she was left alone with herself and her thoughts, she reached for the knob one last time and turned the water off. Alone. Naked, she hesitantly stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, which she wrapped around her waist in a makeshift strapless dress. On another day, she might have pretended to be a French model and struck an exaggerated pose. Thrust her hips out. Stretched her neck out. Flipped her hair over one shoulder. Pouted her lips. Today, she merely brushed out her hair and swept it into a lazy bun.

She could still picture his face. Most of her memories of him had been ruined by _that girl_, but sometimes she could think back to the times when they were young and boys were yucky and it didn't matter how big your boobs were in comparison to the rest of you.

Her finger traced the shape of her eyes, brushing away any tears that may have collected there. She opened the bathroom door. The hall was empty. She dashed over to her bedroom and the pure _whiteness _of it all made her feel ugly and dirty.

Words lined her tongue.

None of them seemed right.

In her years as a teenager, she'd suffered through many a made-for-TV movie where angst-ridden teenagers talked to themselves. Where the "bad girl" muttered devious plans under her breath. Where the "good girl" shrieked about some "cute guy" liking her. Stupid things like that. Even in lieu of recent events, she was still a Block, a _Massie _Block, and she would never subject herself to that kind of pathetic behaviour.

Just yesterday it had all happened.

She still hadn't told her mother, though the pearls-wearing woman would probably hear it from loose-lipped Claire. _Claire_. Claire, who had kissed him before she ever did. She wondered if the petite, watery-eyed blonde was sitting across the Block Estate, in the guest house, in her bedroom, fretting about the boy she'd kissed and the girl she most definitely had not. Massie didn't want anyone worrying about her. Least of all Claire Lyons.

A pair of silken pyjamas lay on her white pillow. Also silk. All the silk was making her want to hurl. Not that anything would come up. She hadn't eaten since breakfast — yesterday.

Throwing the silk two-piece set onto the smooth hardwood floor, she collapsed onto her bed, still wrapped in the towel, which was still warm from being on the heated towel rack. She stifled a cough. Drew her knees to her chest.

Curled up the fetal position, she knew her hair looked a ragged mess. She didn't care. Didn't bother to pick up the boar's-hair brush from her nightstand and run it through her wet tangles. Nothing mattered any more. Sure, she would be subject to taunts and pointed stares from the remaining members of the self-named "Pretty Committee" (which she had been ceremoniously booted from when word got out about her and him) for the rest of her life, but he had been her only reason to get a mani/pedi or comb her hair or shave her legs or coat her lips in gloss or dress to the nines.

Him and his intoxicating kisses.

Remembering how his lips always seemed wet — like he'd applied some man-gloss — and pink and kissable, made another shiver pulse through her slim body.

Before he had soccer practice they would sneak into the pine woods that encircled his school. She would pull off his baseball cap. He would cup the back of her head, run his fingers through her styled hair. She would jokingly push him off of her, only to pull him back closer than before.

It was in this fashion, that she became addicted to him and his caramel eyes.

She was sure he felt the same way about her. How could he hold her close like that without meaning it? How could he ignore his own girlfriend to wink at her without caring?

It wasn't all just smoke and mirrors. There _was_ something between them. The sparks, the chemistry, whatever you call it, they had it.

_Everything is that girl's fault. She ruined my life. In fact, she practically_ — _She! _

But the words still wouldn't come. And now, she couldn't even think about what _that girl _did. Another shard of her glass heart broke off, whispering his name in longing, over and over.

A pillow. She grabbed the fluffy white thing and used it to shield her ears from her thoughts. It was getting late. Almost midnight. She should turn in for the night. But she couldn't. She was addicted. If only to his memory.

_"Two fifteen-year-olds, who've been identified by the Westchester County, New York, community as Alicia Rivera and boyfriend, Joshua Hotz were found, shot-dead, in the woods late last night." _Her alarm clock-slash-radio blared with the sounds of a nasal national-news reporter. Strangely, Massie couldn't make herself press Snooze. If only because the sound of his name still gave her tingles.

_"Both of them were very good-looking, smart, and upstanding members of the community. They were enrolled in private schools. Miss Rivera at Octavian Country Day School; Mr. Hotz at Briarwood Academy. Friends described the duo as 'the perfect couple.' If anyone has any information on the deaths please contact the authorities. Police are staying mum in regards to cause of death. Murder has yet to be ruled out. Thank you and good night. Now to Richard, with the sports update." _

Her finger pressed the Power button. The previously illuminated electronic device went dim. She dropped the towel to the floor and changed into a pair of soccer shorts he thought he'd lost and a Hotchkiss sweatshirt he'd let her 'borrow.' Tears flowed freely from her stunning amber eyes. She flicked the lightswitch off and crawled into bed, wishing that this painful chapter in her life was over.

The words came.

"Goodbye, Josh."


End file.
